


Hedgehog's Dilemma

by megvad



Category: Twelfth Night - Shakespeare
Genre: Character Study, Friendship, Gen, Post-Canon Fix-It, gimme a happy ending for these two fr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:14:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27205741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megvad/pseuds/megvad
Summary: "I'm afraid something's wrong with Sir Andrew."Antonio has learned that it is a common expression used at the estate, long before his arrival. He has also learned its meaning: could you go check up on him?_______A New Year's Resolution gift, studying the dynamics of a friendship that could've been.
Relationships: Antonio & Sir Andrew Aguecheek, Background Sir Andrew Aguecheek & Sir Toby Belch
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5
Collections: New Year's Resolutions 2020





	Hedgehog's Dilemma

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moemachina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moemachina/gifts).



> Ok, so I posted this an hour before the deadline for Yuletide 2020 sign-ups, and I hate myself for it. I did not intend to procrastinate this far. But considering that I still made it in time...I wonder if I've learned my lesson. There's got to be some Pavlovian conditioning to save me.
> 
> Anyways, I was very surprised by how much I enjoyed Twelfth Night! It's really just a feel-good play, even if the treatment of Antonio and Andrew towards the end made me sad. Which is why I found the prompt for this fic perfect!
> 
> To preface, I didn't want to even _attempt_ Elizabethan English, so I tried my hand at pseudo-Shakespearean, formal-sounding dialogue. Feel free to point out if anything sounds weird/can be rewritten!
> 
> Inspiration for this fic took some time. I knew I wanted a redemption for Andrew, but wasn't sure how to go about it. One night, as I was reading up on Schopenhauer, I came across his theory about human intimacy, and _bam!_ — i had it.
> 
> There's a lot of discussion on paradoxes that didn't exist at the time the play takes place. I'll take creative liberty there, hehe.

No one is prepared for Sir Andrew's arrival home. Firstly, his carriage returns almost a month earlier than anticipated. This sets the estate into a frenzy, as servants scurry to clean his chambers for the first time in weeks and throw away the stashes of ale and canary that they've stored in every corner of the house. They don't hate their employer, but his absence allows for unprecedented freedom and negligence. Oh well. It was fun while it lasted.

Secondly, instead of a beaming wife, Sir Andrew Aguecheek returns with a bandaged face, a dour expression, and a man.

*

"I'm afraid something's wrong with Sir Andrew."

Antonio has learned that it is a common expression used at the estate, long in use before his arrival. He has also learned its meaning: could you go check up on him?

He doesn't really feel like playing messenger though, so he takes advantage of his status as stranger. He pushes himself off the ground and faces the skittish maid. "What?" he laughs. "You say that he wasn't like this before my arrival?"

She shakes her head. "No," she says, an edge of incredulity in her voice. "Not at all. Yes, he is prone to melodrama, but to lock himself in his room for days..." Although they are the only two in the garden, she lowers her voice and leans towards him. "Was he spurned so harshly by Countess Olivia?"

Antonio's smile falters. The discomfort that pierces his chest returns every time there is talk of the event, but its recurring mention and the subsequent pain are to be expected. How can it not be, when it serves as the reason for his presence at the Aguecheek estate? "Quite viciously," he lies. "I've never heard crueller words flung about, nor seen a man humiliated so thoroughly."

"How horrible!" Her eyes dart away briefly. Antonio follows her line of sight to spot Andrew's room, which is too high up to see anything happening behind the windows. "Did he mention his salary?"

"I believe so."

"Did he offend her?"

"I do not know."

The maid shakes her head with disdain. "Then she is a truly heartless woman. Sir Andrew has his despairs, but none have left him quite so tormented."

"He still refuses to come out of his room?"

"Unless it's for meals. I was certain that yesterday's visit from the surgeon would soothe his ill humors, but..." A heaving sigh. "Maybe his friends will come around this week. They'll pull him out of his slump."

"I certainly hope so."

"Someone ought to check up on him, all the same."

This is another expression directed at him, as if he knows Sir Andrew any better than the rest of them. How many times does he have to remind the staff that, although he's been here for a week, his longest conversation with the knight only lasted half-an-hour? "You're right," he says, feigning ignorance. "Someone ought to."

Their conversation peeters out into silence. A gust of spring air blows past their ankles, carrying birdsong and the smell of flowers. The hedges of the garden wall them in and the blue sky serves as their ceiling. The feeling of simultaneous freedom and enclosure reminds him of his months out at sea. The ocean spreads out for leagues on all sides, and yet, he can venture no further than the railing of the ship. Antonio drops to his knees and resumes his previous fixation on the ground.

"Do you spend your free time here?" she asks.

"I do. It's very peaceful."

"I knew you'd say that."

"Hm?"

"Well, if you were interested in the flowers, you would be looking up at them, not down at the soil. So I rightly guessed that you were here for the quiet."

"Oh, I'm not studying their roots." Antonio chuckles and gestures for her to look at her feet. "There's an ant that has piqued my curiosity."

"An ant?" The maid's brows furrow. "Has your stay been so devoid of other amusements?"

"Not at all! But there is a puzzle that I am intent on recreating. See?" Antonio pulls out a long, flimsy string from his pocket.

"What is that?"

"A thread. I want to try and get the ant to crawl on top of it, and then stretch it out." Antonio straightens it and presses it onto the dirt, eagerly watching the ant approach. "Say an ant is crawling on a string at a constant speed. It should eventually reach the end. But what happens if the string stretches at ten times the speed of the ant?"

"Why, the poor thing would never reach the end."

"Ah-ha! That's the trick. One would think so, but actually, the ant would still reach the end! The ant's relative position remains the same. The distance it has already covered remains proportionally constant. So, given enough time, the ant will eventually reach the end. The expanding string does not hinder its movement. In fact, it brings it closer to the end."

"I see," she says slowly. Given the maid's blank expression and nod, it is clear she has not. Antonio begins to regret spewing all that jargon and expecting enlightenment, but her polite smile assuages some worry. "Were you a professor once, Antonio?"

"I should hope not. Children are too difficult to teach."

"You seem very well learned. These puzzles are far beyond my realm of understanding."

"All I've done is a bit of reading. Shall I tell you more?"

The maid giggles. "While I appreciate the offer, I have work to finish." It is only then does he notice the shears in her hand and the basket by her feet. The maid turns to the bushes before her and adroitly snips away at the stems of flowers, collecting hydrangeas and roses to add to the pile in her basket. She works with practiced finality, no hesitation to her irreversible actions. Antonio is entranced.

"Are those for bouquets?"

"Yes. The chambermaid enjoys decorating the household. She was anticipating a bride to help her with the arrangements, but alas." Another rose is severed. "Sir Andrew enjoys them too, and so does his mother. So maybe this will rectify his mood." Antonio continues to stare, mesmerized by the light glinting off metal and the rhythmic sound. _Snip, snip, snip._

After a dozen or so more flowers are cut, the maid returns the shears to her pocket. She bends forward, examines her work, and once satisfied, straightens herself. "Good Antonio, are you busy after this?"

He's forgotten the ant entirely. It's too late to find now; its dark body has camouflaged with the soil. "Not particularly. Why?"

"There are a few vases in Sir Andrew's chamber," she says, sifting through the pile and selecting the brightest blossoms. "And I think that someone ought to take a bouquet or two to him. To brighten his room. The last time I checked, he's resigned himself to monocolor." With an imploring grin, she holds out an assortment. "Would you mind bringing this to him? The doors to his room aren't locked, but I believe he's still in bed. The others tried rousing him, but he was adamant."

As much as Antonio wants to retort that he's not employed to work for Andrew, it's the first time he's referred to by name and not 'someone'. He gets up and abandons the string.

"Very well," he says, carefully avoiding thorns as he holds the collection. "I'll see what I can do."

*

Antonio is still buzzing from the high of being called 'good Antonio’ that the odd glances directed at him by the staff don't matter. He traverses the halls, beaming. It feels good to walk with purpose rather than aimlessly wander.

Once he stands outside of Andrew's door, he knocks. "Sir Andrew?"

No response. He tries again.

"Sir Andrew? Are you awake?"

"Leave me be," he hears a muffled voice groan. It is a stark contrast to the their brief, skittish exchange a week prior. Antonio fights back laughter.

"It's Antonio, sir. I come bearing gifts."

"...Antonio?" He hears sheets being shuffled, curtains being drawn, and quick footsteps that become louder as they approach him. The door creaks open, revealing only a sliver of the voice’s owner. "Good morrow?"

"Good morrow indeed." Antonio tries to peek around him. "Have you been lying in the dark all this while?"

"No, of course not," Andrew quickly says. "I was doing work."

"Of course. Anyways, I brought flowers from the garden. Would you allow me in?"

"You can just hand them to me. I'll put them in a vase."

"I'd like to see them in the vase, too."

There is a moment of hesitation. "I'm not dressed," he whispers.

"I'll wait," Antonio says, and grins as he imagines Andrew's grimace behind the door. Who ever said that ignorance was a vice?

It takes a few more minutes of idly standing by and listening to him scurry around before Andrew opens the door, hastily dressed. Antonio stares at him, blinks, and wonders if this is the same man who'd invited him to his home a week prior.

Andrew's face is lean, but there is now a pale shade cast over his complexion that makes his cheeks appear more sunken and the darkness around his eyes more prominent. Sunlight bounces off tousled and tangled straw-yellow hair. Antonio tries not to be cruel when he makes judgements, but would it be so wrong to call him worse for wear?

As compensation for his disheveled appearance, Andrew offers a nervous smile. Its disarming kindness snaps Antonio out of his daze.

" _Bonjour_ ," Antonio says.

" _Bon...bonjour_? Ah, French." Andrew nods. "Yes, I remember. I wasn't very good at it, but I remember that word. _Bonjour_!"

"Ah! A man of truly good education! Can you recite Ovid?"

"I am not good at them by the virtue of simply knowing them," he sheepishly says. "And I disliked recitation."

"How are you at arithmetic, then?"

"Well enough to manage accounts, poor enough to dislike doing so."

"Really? Then your wit must have gone to your hands. Are you a jack-of-all-trades?"

"My hands? No, no, I am a Taurus — it is legs and heart. But pray tell, are jacks required in every trade?" He glances over his shoulder at the decorated windows leading to the balcony. "Hm. I suppose everyone needs to know the time." His face illuminates with the satisfaction of understanding.

Antonio doesn't interrogate him on that conclusion. "May I come in?"

"About that..." Andrew swallows. "My room is in disarray, and I've been writing letters, and there are bottles everywhere — from before my arrival, not emptied by me! — and..."

"Sir Andrew, have you ever travelled by ship?" The question earns him a confused glance.

"I've never left Illyria, so no."

"Then you have been spared from the horrors of a sea vessel's hull. I assure you, no knight's bedroom can compare to the cramped quarters of twenty-or-so drunk sailors."

Andrew's nose scrunches at the thought. "What was it like?"

"Laundry and bottles strewn about, sweat and dinner staining the sheets, the scent of fish and alcohol lingering in the air..." Nostalgia wells up intensely inside him as he exaggerates. He misses the sea so profoundly that his throat constricts with longing. Still, Andrew's growing repulsion amuses him, so he continues. "It's damp and dark, everyone snores out of tandem, someone stumbles outside and returns smelling of vomit..."

He chews his lower lip. "My room isn't so bad. But it is still unsightly."

What else, what else? While grasping at straws, a bit of truth slips out: "I've hardly seen you. We've barely spoken, nor have I been able to thank you for your hospitality. Grant me this one request, and let me in?"

Andrew studies him. Neither move. Antonio feels his words return to gnaw at his stomach. God, that was... _really stupid_. His obstinacy has only succeeded in making Andrew resent him. He prepares to apologize the moment the knight's smile sours.

Instead, Andrew's face softens. Was he moved by that pitiful earnestness, or worn down by his persistence? He sighs softly and steps aside. "Very well. I'll acquiesce this once."

Antonio senses reluctance, but realizes that he'll be even more foolish to turn down the offer now. So, with a quiet "excuse me", he shuffles inside.

This extends far beyond the maid's request, and his reason for doing so eludes even him. Was he so deprived of human interaction? Antonio knows that he has not been bred for a solitary existence. Years with a crew in close-quarters cannot make anyone appreciate silence. The initial weeks of Sebastian's recovery, where he was too incapacitated to even speak, were difficult. Even now, conversation is rarely made with busy servants and the elusive Andrew.

He feels no attachment to anyone here, however. A great deal of pity, yes, but nothing that would tie him to this place or prompt him to seek out banter. Andrew is already dealing with his own matters, anyways. During their first few interactions, his features were almost always shadowed by melancholy. The right thing would be to give this man his space to fight this private battle. Overstepping and imposing would be selfish.

But there's the thing: Antonio gives, and gives, and keeps giving. Can't he be selfish for once? Can't he cling to impulse and inconvenience others?

Sunlight pours through the windows and casts a glow on the ground. It illuminates the twisted bedsheets and refracts off the bottles resting on the desk and chairs. Noticing Antonio's eyes lingering for a little too long, Andrew trips over his own tongue to come up with an excuse.

"The staff have been negligent in their duties," he says, rushing to pick them up. "I ought to give them a stern talking-to."

"Perhaps." His eyes fall upon a porcelain vase with teal decorations. He tenderly slips the flowers in, one-by-one, until all that remains in his palm is the ache of something that once was. He has no eye for arrangement but finds the alternating blue-red pattern pleasing enough. "Do you take pride in your garden, Sir Andrew?"

"Yes," he says, dumping the bottles onto a chaise and tossing a blanket over them. "Look outside. I have the best view from here."

Antonio does. From high above, the flowers appear little more than a quilted blanket over green.

"I thought I told Agnes not to cut the hydrangeas," Andrew sighs, walking over to finger the petals."

"Are they not finished growing?"

"Oh no, they're fine. But I wanted them to remain. For sentimental reasons."

"Shall I go and stop her, then?"

"Oh, no need." He waves his hand dissmissively. "The deed has been done. And Agnes will not cut too many. Do not trouble yourself over this. Instead..." He looks up. "How has your search for employment gone?"

"Poorly. Orsino's forgiveness may be instant, but the damage to my reputation is lifelong. No employer wants to hire someone who is under the scrutiny of the Duke."

"Oh." Andrew exhales solemnly. "Forgive me for asking, but how did you live before?"

"Off some remaining treasure. No merchant will bat an eye when I place money into their pockets for food and clothing. They scrutinize when they must put money into _mine_. Besides, we are no strangers to the Duke's temperament. His temper shifts like the tides at sea. His mood is ever-changing."

"Like the moon?" Andrew asks hopefully. "Is that the right expression?"

"I believe so. Anyways, I fear that he may become slighted by Viola one day, and will revoke all pardons and clemency in his choler."

"But Olivia and her husband are in some debt to you, are they not? Surely, they'll prevent the Duke from doing anything rash."

Antonio's chest tightens and he feels his face twist. Thank goodness his back is to Andrew. "Even if they are, I would rather not waste my time petitioning the Duke and then running to the Countess while avoiding the police. I'd prefer something more...stable." His fingers trace the glass. "I've resolved to leave Illyria. Return to sailing."

"When?"

"When the next ship arrives. I'll prostate in front of the captain and beg for employment, no matter how humble of a salary and undesirable of a position." The tides may be ever-changing, but at least his employment and sanity would not.

"Have you given up hope completely? There must be _something_ in Illyria."

"There very well may be. But I've been planning on leaving for months now. I had...prior business holding me back, but I am no longer tethered."

"Listen," Andrew says, and Antonio hears footsteps approaching him. "If you so wish, I can find you some permanent employment. You shouldn't be driven out of your home, especially after all that has transpired. I’ll write a glowing letter of recommendation."

Antonio turns around. Moved by Andrew's agitation, he gathers the knight's hands into his own and smiles warmly. "I appreciate the offer. But I have been anchored here for far too long. I feel worn by this island already." From such a close distance, he can see the fading, pink scar on his forehead.

"Worn? But how can you be worn of Illyria? It is home." He looks down sadly. "...Have you been treated so poorly?"

"Nothing of the sort. And your generosity has made up the deficit tenfold." Antonio squeezes Andrew's hands and lets go. "I shall sail like Theseus!"

"Theseus?" Andrew stares at him blankly before lighting up. "Wait! From Plutarch!"

"Ah-ha! It appears that your Greek fares better than Latin."

"Not really," he says, bashfully averting his eyes. "I simply enjoy hearing stories."

"Then do you know anything regarding the ship of Theseus?" Antonio asks with growing excitement.

"His ship? The one he came to Athens on? No, nothing."

"I see." Antonio is not deterred. "How did you fare in rhetoric?"

"It was all Greek to me. I skipped lessons to go horseback riding instead. What did Plutarch say about the ship?"

"Oh, he said nothing significant about it. I was referring to the paradox."

“Paradox?” Andrew whines. “Must you trouble me with more Latin?”

Antonio chuckles. “It’s nothing difficult. A paradox is a statement or scenario that appears contradictory or untrue, but is very much possible. Or they are arguments that use logic to prove impossible outcomes.”

“It sounds confusing. Why would one go about disproving the truth?”

“Because it is fun. A good pastime.” Succumbing to his fervor, Antonio gestures wildly. “Anyways, returning to Theseus: the ship on which Theseus had sailed to Athens from Crete was revered by Athenians and preserved in the harbor for hundreds of years. However, as wood decays with time, a plank of the ship began to rot. The proposed solution was to replace the plank with a new, identical plank, and for the rotting one to be stored away. With every passing day, another plank rots. And so every single decaying part is replaced with a newer one. After a century or so passes, all the rotting pieces have been replaced. Is this restored ship the same one as its previous counterpart?”

“I should think so! If everything is identical, then they are the same.”

“Very well. Now, let us say that a group of shipwrights are so skilled that they can take the rotting wood and create a new ship with it. This new ship that they have built is identical to the restored one, and by proxy, the initial design. This is the paradox: which one of the two ships is the original? Is it the restored one, or the rotting one?”

Andrew stares at him blankly. Although his thoughtful humming gives the appearance of deep reflection, there is nothing perceivable flashing behind his eyes. Finally, he answers, “The rotting one. It has the very wood that Theseus sailed on.”

“But Theseus did not sail on rotting wood, did he?”

“So the restored one is the original.”

“And yet, it is built out of Athenian wood, not Cretian.”

“Hm.” Andrew scratches his chin. “Those blasted shipwrights. If they hadn’t bothered to show off their talents, then we wouldn’t mull over this.”

“Alas. But do you now see what a —”

Andrew suddenly breaks out into a grin and snaps his fingers. “What ribbands did the carpenters use?”

“I..." His face falls. "What?”

“Well, ribbands decay too, do they not? So not every part of Theseus’s ship is salvageable.”

What an odd clarification. “You have to assume that the ribbands can be, in this case. They’re taken out alongside the decaying planks.”

“Well then, they would be awfully weak! They’d snap at the very touch. A shipwright worth his salt wouldn’t think of using such ribbands to hold together a ship.”

“Then assume that they’ve retained their strength —”

“But they decay far faster than planks of wood. Because the shipwrights took out the material and went to work on the same day, then it would not be possible for the ribbands to be in perfect condition. The shipwrights used new ribbands for the decaying boat, and have therefore made it unlike the original. So my answer is neither! They are both imitations.”

Antonio blinks once, then twice. “...Are you telling me that the originality of the ship depends on the ribbands?”

“Of course!” Andrew folds his arms across his chest. “There. Paradox solved.”

He shakes his head. “No, no. Sir Andrew, you must think very simply. Forget the ribbands, and consider only the major wooden structures. Which one would Theseus declare to be his?”

“The restored one, then!” His chest puffs out in pride. “Why would Theseus lay claim to an unusable ship? It would be shameful.”

Was this really happening? Antonio feels something poking at his patience. “I was being figurative. You must think of solely the parts. Forget the ribbands, forget the honor. Which boat is the original?”

“Well then, the decaying one. Theseus stood upon it. And now that he is dead, he will not stand upon the restored ship.”

“Yes,” Antonio says, his voice straining to remain even, “but Theseus didn’t sail on a decaying ship.”

“Will Theseus come to complain? He knows his ship. He has an attachment to it. I find it rather poetic, how the ship is following its master. Surely that devotion grants it the honor of being the original.”

Why is he so insistent on finding the holes? Is that a smile of smugness or genuine cluelessness? “Sir Andrew, just accept the story as is,” he says, every syllable punctured by a needle-like frustration.

Almost immediately, Antonio regrets his tone. He watches Andrew deflate. The confidence in his stature and the glee twinkling in his eyes recede quickly. Witnessing them become eclipsed by worry sends guilt spilling into his abdomen. Andrew forces an uncertain smile and hastily amends. “Then I am perplexed! I do not know the answer. Good Antonio, what is it?”

“There is no answer,” he mutters. Should he apologize? But Andrew would deflect, and that would only serve to widen the ravine between them. “It is a paradox. There is usually no satisfactory solution.”

“I see.” The discordant note of Antonio’s guilt stains the silence. It builds pressure on his chest, weighing him down like an anchor, pulling his head under the water.

“And what have you been up to?” he blurts out. The olive-branch is pathetic, but it is the first thing he can settles on.

“Nothing much.” The friendliness returns to Andrew’s voice, and Antonio feels a cathartic breath leave him. He becomes light-headed with relief. “I’ve been penning letters. There are still many more left to write.”

“If you’ll pardon my curiosity, to whom are they addressed?”

“To friends of mine.” He laughs humorlessly. “I am in a position where requesting favors has become necessary. But not to worry; they are all good men. At some point, I’ve given them all some money. Although I dislike keeping count, there are still those who are indebted to me. I’ve sent some letters already, inviting them over for dinner to talk about repayment.”

Antonio winces. Bad move, he thinks. The parchment and ink have already been wasted on blind eyes. However, Andrew’s optimism may make him impervious to any critique offered, and Antonio has no intent of kicking an already-beaten man. He forces a smile. “Will their arrivals pull you out of your bedroom, or will you dine in here?”

Andrew laughs with such free-spirited enthusiasm that it almost hurts. “You needn’t worry yourself with that. But I warn you — we can be quite a risible, rambunctious group!”

“I don’t doubt it. I’ll expect much fanfare.”

They make meaningless conversation for a little longer before Antonio excuses himself. As he leaves the room, however, a nagging feeling follows him. Antonio turns and finds an an anchor, digging into the ground like it always does. It hangs right at the entrance of Andrew’s room, hooked onto his waist by a chain of sentiments he’ll never express.

Antonio thinks of nothing further and continues to trudge down the hallway, fist clenching around the space where stems once were.

Just as expected, no one comes the following day, nor the days after.

*

“You know, when you first arrived, I thought that Sir Andrew had finally gone blind.”

Antonio looks up from his book to find the stable hand snickering. It’s a squeaking, breathless kind of laughter that characterizes an adolescent. Charmed, he smiles. “Oh?”

“Either he’d brought the wrong person home, or he could no longer see the difference between a pretty countess and an ugly maid.” He drops a half-full pail of water right in front of a grey horse’s stall. “No offense.”

“Plenty taken.” Andrew picks up a piece of straw and chucks it at him. It doesn’t get very far before sinking.

The stable hand knocks on the door of the stall. Capilet, alerted by the noise, trots over. “I’m not complaining, through,” he says, leaning over to pour water into the trough. The horse whinnies and eagerly drinks. “You’re the only one who’s able to speak to him.”

“Untrue. Sir Andrew speaks with the staff.”

“Ever since his return, not more than a few words. He meets us at the door and bids us adieu. Considering that you’ve been going to his room almost daily for the past week, you’ve been able to wrangle something more out of him.”

Antonio straightens in surprise. “And how you you know of that?” he asks.

“Gossip,” the stable hand replies indifferently. “The stewardess says that you’re buttering him up, so that you can stay for longer. Says that it’s the case with everyone Sir Andrew brings home. But I don’t think that applies to you.”

“You don’t?”

He shrugs, petting Capilet’s neck. “Nope. The usual stock of people who come to visit don’t run around fulfilling requests on the servants’ behalf.” Another snicker. “Nor do they hide away in the stables. The smell is usually unsuitable for them.”

Antonio closes his book to push himself off the bale of hay he sits on. “I’ve done a number of odd jobs before. Manure may be gut-churning, but decaying fish is intolerable.” He walks over to Capilet’s stall and reaches out tentatively. When he glances over at the stable hand, he receives a reassuring nod. Antonio’s fingers brush against the horse’s neck and rest there, delighted by the undulations that the contraction and relaxation of muscle bring. “Above all,” he says, “I wanted to read in peace.”

“You couldn’t have sat in the gardens? In the dining hall? In the _library_?”

“Unfortunately, it appears the rest of the staff have become aware of my mystic ability to communicate with the master of the household. I’m not interested in playing messenger right now.” He moves his hand higher, threading his fingers through Capilet’s white hair. “They’re _everywhere_ , asking me to do what they can’t. Bring him the kitchen’s inventory update. Inform him of the steward’s vacation. At one point, even request a raise in salary!”

“Do you resent it?”

“...No,” he quietly admits. “It’s nice to be needed.”

“So that’s it, eh? You came all the way here to be ‘needed’ by the master?” He pokes Antonio teasingly. “Might as well get paid for your efforts.”

“I wasn’t hired. Sir Andrew offered me a place to stay while I hunt for work.”

“Really?” he asks with a cheeky inflection. “What kind of destitute must you have been in for him to offer?”

Antonio sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Am I thought of so poorly by the stewardess?”

“Oh no, this is simply my observation,” the stable hand cackles. Antonio opens his mouth to remind the boy of his manners, but his laughter is so infectious that the disrespect is forgotten. He pinches the boy’s cheek, which is received with another delighted shriek. “I didn’t mean any harm by it,” he says after finally settling. “Sir Andrew just has a habit of offering such things to those who ask. He hardly ever turns down people looking for employment, or those asking for a loan. Sometimes, if you’re pathetic enough, _he’ll_ extend the offer to you.” The stable boy kicks at the ground, sending straw and dry soil flying. “Happened with my parents, anyways.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I think he’s like you, then. Like most adults. He likes to be needed. I find it bizarre.”

“Oh?” Antonio chimes, trying to hide how much the observation of their similarities resounds. “Don’t you adore your master?”

The boy throws his head back and laughs, shoulders convulsing. “I adored him once, yes. Every starry-eyed servant does. But as time passes and the callouses harden, adoration limits itself to the paycheck.”

“You are too young to be saying such things!” he teases. The stable hand makes a face.

“And yet, look who has a job.”

While Antonio wonders if he was so brazen and outspoken during his youth, the boy picks up the empty bucket by his feet and beckons for Antonio to follow him outside. “You didn’t answer my question,” he says. “Why did he offer to bring you here?”

Antonio walks behind him, waiting until they are out of the stables and under the sun to speak. “I don’t know why. We met at Countess Olivia’s estate.”

“The one he was going to wed? The one he is still moping over?”

“Yes, her.” Antonio pauses to select his words carefully. He does not want to humiliate Andrew in any way, let alone to one with such a sharp tongue. “After she rejected his proposal, we ended up running into one another, and —”

“Why were you there?”

His stomach folds. “I was, ah, a friend of her now-husband,” he says with no small effort. The bile rises less quickly now, but his heart lurches with unforgettable intensity. “We accidentally stumbled onto the grounds, which is where she met him and I, Sir Andrew. We made small conversation, in which he asked about my profession and I respond with nothing. He then insisted that I come stay here while I search for work.”

“He befriends the friend of the man who stole his betrothed?” The boy dumps the pail beneath the water pump and scratches his head. “Sounds foolish. But Sir Andrew is eccentric, so I suppose that this is in character for him.” His hands wrap around the handle of the pump and push down. The pump gurgles and groans before spitting out a stream of cold water. “Antonio?”

“Yes?”

“Have you finished reading your book?”

“I’ve marked the page where I left off.”

“Good.” The boy turns around, grinning mischievously. “Say, would you mind running up and sending a message to Sir Andrew?”

*

All Antonio can think about during the walk to Andrew’s room is their first interaction. It remains fresh in his mind, by virtue of being only two weeks old. That insolent stable boy has brought up a deluge of memories and emotions best left forgotten.

_He was standing right outside the door. When Antonio had asked, Sebastian had told him that the physician was attending to someone in the lounge before running after his new bride. The scrapes from his little sword fight were finally starting to sting. He was lucky to not be the only one who’d incurred injuries over the course of the day. There was that one cowering, lean-faced fool and the fat uncle. Any drunk surgeon was well-stocked in gauze, because it was the only treatment they knew of, and Dick was as good of a drunk surgeon as any._

As the door to his chamber comes into sight, his pace hastens. It is becoming increasingly difficult to refuse requests, he thinks, as though he’s ever considered turning them down in the first place.

_He knocked. When met with no response, he knocked again. Still no call for him to enter or wait outside. Was anyone in there? Antonio grabbed the doorknob and twisted. It was at that second that someone cried “Wait!”, but it was too late. He swung the door open and stepped inside, only to exchange stunned stares with the lean-faced fool._

Once in front of the door, Antonio knocks. “Sir Andrew?” he calls. “This is Antonio. May I come in?”

“Antonio?” Andrew repeats. “Antonio! Ah, yes, come in!” With that permission, Antonio swings the door open and steps inside.

_The man blinked once, then twice, and finally recoiled. “Ah — sorry, sorry!”_

_“N-no, no!” Antonio stammered, raising his hands. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you! I’ll leave.”_

_“Wait, that isn’t necessary.” Although still wide-eyed and pale, his voice regained composure quickly. He straightened his back. “You may stay."_

_“Ah. Good.” Antonio closed the door behind him. Then, noticing the man press a cloth to his forehead, he asked, “Are you waiting for the surgeon?”_

_“Yes. He’s just gone out to get more dressings for my wound. I am bleeding rather profusely.” Antonio didn’t think that the red stains on the towel classified as ‘profuse’, but made no comment. “Are you waiting for the surgeon, too?”_

_“Yes. I am in need of bandages myself.” He forced a polite smile towards the man who, he noted, appeared just as skittish now as he did armed with a sword. He tried to not let animosity get the better of him._

Andrew is hovering over his desk, swamped under a sea of crumpled papers and snapped quills. When Antonio closes the door behind him, he looks up from his work and smiles. “Good morrow!”

“It is noontime."

“Oh. Well, in that case, good noon!” Andrew’s hands disappear behind stacks of papers. Only the quill sticks out, and judging by its jerky, ungainly dance, its master is in a hurry. Once the line is finished with a satisfied “Ah-ha!” and a forceful dot, Andrew meets Antonio’s eyes again. “You come bearing news?”

“Yet again.” Why the servants don’t run straight to Andrew for such mundane matters is beyond him. They had to have communicated before his arrival, no? “This one comes from the stable hand.”

“Henry?” When Andrew scratches his cheek, the patches of ink staining his right hand are visible. “You were down at the stables?” The idea enthuses him. “Did you see dear Capilet?”

“That is the reason for my visit, I’m afraid. The boy says that you should call a physician for him. The steed isn’t eating as much as he was before.”

His face falls. “Oh dear,” Andrew whispers. “Is it age? Stress? Illness?”

“He wasn’t able to say, but offered that it might be some strange bout of lethargy. All the same, there would be no harm in getting him checked.”

“Yes, yes, indeed.” His brow furrows and he purses his lips. The signs of stress on Andrew’s face become more prominent by the day. The circles are darker around his eyes. When he’s not speaking, his jaw is clenched. What were initially overseeable indicators of tension have escalated to a permanently anxious countenance. Antonio would rather deal with Andrew’s woe than this. At least with that mysterious, forlorn sadness, he could acquit himself of all guilt. His conscious could be clean. However, Andrew’s present distress makes Antonio feel like the helpless one.

As usual, he asks, “Is everything alright, Sir Andrew?”

And as usual, he responds, “Yes! Yes, of course it is,” and retreats into his own private world of contemplation.

As per routine, Antonio gives him a minute to think before saying, “Please allow me to share your troubles. I may not be able to solve them, but we can carry the weight of them together.”

And as per routine, Andrew spills. “A _physician_ ,” he mutters, beginning to pace the room. “My financial state is precautious as it is.”

“ _Precarious_ , sir. And a physician wouldn’t be too...” His words drift off when his eyes land on the papers at the desk. One contains rows and rows of numbers. Next to it is a half-written letter. “Are you still asking for loans?”

“No.” Andrew sighs and collapses on the bed. “As much as I dislike it, I’ve resorted to writing to my family.”

Since he hasn’t been dissuaded from prying, Antonio scans the papers. His eyes widen when they come across a certain figure. “Sir Andrew?”

A grunt.

“...Are you normally down 2000 ducats by this time of year?”

“That’s issue!” he cries, pushing himself up so violently that it startles Antonio. “I’ve been reckless! I can’t manage affairs with just 1000 ducats remaining! Without Olivia, I would’ve sunk! No, I _am_ sinking!” He groans and falls back onto the bed. “I’m sinking, I’m sinking, I’m sinking...”

Antonio stares at him for a minute longer before turning back to the accounts. “How much will they send?”

“I’ve asked for 750 ducats. It is on the letter. If I abstain from sack for the rest of the year, I will scrape by.”

“That won’t do.” Antonio shakes his head. “Ask for 1000.”

“1000?” Andrew repeats, flabbergasted. He shoots up again to gape. Doesn’t he get dizzy? “That’s too much! They’ll scold me and ask where my salary has gone!”

“But they’ll still send something, won’t they? And they are in positions to help their child, yes?”

“Well, both statements are true...”

“Then ask for 1000. If they agree, then you are in a good position for the rest of the year. If they short you, they’ll only send 750. Which is what you needed, is it not?”

Andrew considers this slowly. Then, having hit an epiphany, he leans back with wide eyes. “Good Antonio,” he whispers, awestruck. “You are a genius amongst men.”

“Nothing of the sort,” he says. His swelling ego would beg to differ. “But I’ve dealt with a good deal of money-lenders. Experience is the best teacher.” If Andrew is so easily impressed, Antonio must learn to limit his visits. At this rate, the hot air will give him a cough.

“Now I can call for a physician! Poor Capilet will be well again.” He gets off the bed to shake Antonio’s hand. “Thank you.”

“I am glad to be of service.” He pats the hand on top of his. “Consider it a small repayment for my stay.” Andrew’s whimsical fascination is childishly buoyant and heartwarming. Antonio wishes he could draw so much pleasure out of life.

“Ah, I believe I told you to not concern yourself with such matters! I have incurred everything out of my own volition.” His teeth peek out from behind his smile when he chuckles. “But if you feel so inclined, do you have a paradigm for this situation?”

Antonio’s eyes narrow. “Paradigm? Oh, _paradox_?”

“Yes!” He nods ardently. “Yes, like the one a few days ago. You brought me the kitchen inventory and smartly said that there was a paradox involving grains of wheat. I liked that one much more than Theseus’ ship!”

Antonio hadn’t expected Andrew to show interest in paradoxes. When he had come to deliver the inventory list a few days ago, Antonio had the opportunity to review the items. He’d made an off-hand comment in front of the knight regarding a strange paradox involving grains of wheat. Surprisingly, Andrew had begged for him to reveal it.

_“A million grains of wheat is a heap,” he said. “And if one is taken from a pile and put elsewhere, then there is still a heap. Now, what if I take another? Still a heap. If I continue this process, I will eventually be left with one grain.” He grinned devilishly. “So at what point did we stop classifying the wheat as a heap?”_

_“When there is one remaining?” Andrew offered._

_“So is it still a heap if there are two grains? Three? Ten? A hundred?”_

_“Well...a heap is a heap only if the group of grains has enough height!”_

_“But given a large enough room, a million grains could be spread out, couldn’t they? Would they no longer be a heap? And how tall is tall enough? Ten thousand grains are a heap, and so are a thousand.”_

_Andrew threw out a few more conjectures, which all fell away upon close scrutiny and argument. To his credit, though, he did not ask of ants or the bags that brought in the wheat._

Antonio was and continues to be pleasantly surprised by his enthusiasm. He was certain that his initial sour attitude had dissuaded Andrew from approaching the topic again. Seeing as that isn’t the case, he can conduct himself with a little more ease. Andrew is apparently not the type to hold grudges.

He looks up at the ceiling as he jogs through his memory. “There is one that I remember,” he says. “But it involves an ass rather than a horse, and I am not particularly fond of it. The premise is this: there is an ass that is equally hungry as it is thirsty. It is then placed exactly midway between a pile of hay and a pail of water. The ass is foolish and will only go towards whichever is closer. However, as the food and water are equidistant from from the ass, it will remain stuck in place until it starves and dies.”

“How horrible!” Andrew gasps. “Why didn’t the poor thing just decide?”

“Well, I believe that is the point of the paradox. If one remains indecisive for their whole life, then they fail to do anything and die.”

“But it could have either drank and then ate, or ate and then drank!”

Antonio agrees. “That is why I dislike this one. In order to believe it, we must adopt a new logic, in which the ass is insufferably foolish.”

“But any animal, regardless of the wits, would chose one thing or the other, correct? It is instinct. So the ass must be smarter than an average animal!”

Antonio opens his mouth to assure Andrew of no such thing, but reconsiders. Just where are his thoughts going? “Is it as smart as man, then?” he asks, the ends of his lips curling upwards.

“No, perhaps not. An animal may rely on instinct, so it will choose either food or water and then go to other. A man may rely on sense, so he will choose either food or water and then go to the other. But if the ass is above instinct and below sense...”

Strangely compelled by this oblique reasoning, Antonio laughs. “You have the makings of a fine philosopher,” he says. 

Andrew looks up with amazement. He is as gullible as ever. “Are you honest, Antonio? Do you believe so?” He tries to hide his bashful smile.

“Indeed. I haven’t met anyone who thinks quite like you, Sir Andrew.” He pats him on the shoulder encouragingly. “And with that, my business is done. I will take my leave.”

“Will I see you at supper?” Andrew asks, buzzing with pride.

“So long as you haven’t gone blind by then,” he replies, stepping out into the hall and closing the door behind him.

_Neither of them said anything. The gaunt man looked away first, and Antonio copied. Zounds, he should have just left. This was unbearable._

_“Wait, aren’t you...” The man began, eyes narrowing. Then, in a flash of realization, he jolted forward. “Yes, you were the man who was arrested! The one who came to save that youth.”_

_“...Yes?” Had this man finally recognized him? Perhaps the cut on his head wasn't his only injury. “I thought I was saving her brother, though. And I am no longer arrested.”_

_“I see. I don’t believe I caught your name.”_

_“I didn’t throw it,” he joked, but the puzzled expression on the man’s face dried the humor up. “Antonio. And you?”_

_“Sir Andrew Aguecheek,” he said. Including one’s title in an introduction was pretentious, Antonio thought wryly. “I am glad to make your acquaintance, Antonio.”_

_“Likewise.” Fraternizing with the man he very nearly fought was not what had planned, but life went very rarely according to Antonio’s agenda. Venom dissolved in his blood, heating up his palms._

_They returned to a listless silence. Why was Dick taking so long? There had to be spare bandages somewhere around here. What better supplies did the rich waste their money on? If he’d known the surgeon was so occupied, he would’ve gone home and tended to his own wounds._

_“Um, how do you know the youth’s brother?” Andrew asked. Every word that came out of his mouth sounded flighty, like a rabbit creeping towards a lion. Antonio hadn’t even bared his fangs. Yet._

_“Sebastian?” The name coiled around his chest and suffocated him. “I saved him from drowning. He has stayed with me since.” And how quickly he had left! “What is your relation with the Countess?”_

_“I was to be her fiancé,” he said, and after watching Antonio turn pale with shock, hastily added, “Nothing was settled, though! Her uncle, my friend, said that I should court her. But as the present situation suggests...” He threw one hand out and smiled awkwardly. “I did not get very far.”_

_Her uncle? The man who’d limped in and rained insult upon insult on this Andrew? And he was still regarded as ‘friend’? Being withholding of true feelings in front of someone else was another sign of pretentiousness, he reminded himself._

_“You are a sailor, then?”_

_“Hm?”_

_“You said you saved him from the sea. Are you a sailor?”_

_“Was. Past tense. It is in relation to the reason for my arrest.”_

_“Oh, my apologies.” His gaze fell to his feet. There was a pause. “So you are in search of work?”_

_“Not exactly,” Antonio said, eyeing him suspiciously. Was this an offer for servitude? Of course, that was what the wealthy were so concerned about. Their materialistic games of power and control, their image as benefactors for the poor, and —_

_“Well, if you are in need of shelter or respite, my doors are open.”_

_Antonio blinked. “Pardon?”_

_“If you are in need of shelter or respite,” he repeated obliviously, “you can turn to me at any time.” Before Antonio could recover from the surprise, Andrew’s eyes glassed over as he retreated into a sobering, unaffected melancholy._

*

Antonio’s heart is racing. Panting like a dog, he sprints right past the gates of the Aguecheek estate. He’d finally returned from loitering around town, when an elaborately decorated carriage came into view. It was strangely familiar, and it only took Antonio a second to realize why. He’d seen this exact carriage before. At...at...?

It belongs to Countess Olivia.

His feet can’t catch up to his thoughts, but they try. The possibilities race through his mind while Antonio struggles for breath. Who is here? Why are they here? _Is it Sebastian_?

Antonio hates himself for thinking of him again. Three weeks have already elapsed, and he is still hung over a relationship that never reached fruition. He gave himself time, he gave himself space, he gave himself every opportunity to give up. And yet, when the possibility of Sebastian returning to him enters his head, his heart pounds harder.

His mind and emotions are in conflict. Antonio has always known the outcome. He’s embraced the end of his one-sided love. But that’s the thing about love — no amount of acceptance or repression can smother an all-consuming, ardent hope.

He runs past the gardens and into the house. It appears all the servants have flocked in, nervously whispering amongst themselves on the ground floor. Antonio takes a moment to regain his breath and check for sweat, before approaching one of the maids as calmly as possible.

“Is someone here?” he asks.

The woman, who he recognizes as the stewardess, turns around with wide eyes. “Someone from the Countess!” she exclaims. “I didn’t see the fellow, but it was some nicely-dressed man.”

His heart accelerates to the point of ache. The dread and excitement churn in his stomach, making him nauseous with love. “Who was it? A young man? What did he look like?”

“I’ve said it already, I didn’t see the fellow!” She huffs and turns her back to him, rejoining her gossiping coworkers. “If you are so inclined, you may ask Sir Andrew yourself. He has taken to entertaining the visitor in his room. Most unscrupulous!”

Antonio is hardly ever offended by slights like these, but something about her tone incenses him. He blames it on the stress. “Fine,” he mutters between grit teeth. “I will.” Then, to the horror of the servants, he pushes past and ascends the staircase.

Once he reaches the final step, Antonio feels a weight pull him back. He has become familiar with the feeling, so he doesn’t need to turn around to know that it is the anchor. A part of him wants to flee. The other wants to charge forth. He wants some closure, some excuse to let his feelings become concrete through words. At the same time, seeing Sebastian with a wedding ring may very well be the knife to rend his heart in two and finally release his endless grief. He does not want to cry in front of Sebastian, lest he be perceived as clingy.

The sound of an exchange causes his heart to momentarily stop. He glances in the direction of the voices and follows them right to Andrew’s door. They’re too low to make out, but when Antonio is only a step away, they abruptly stop. He hears footsteps and scrambles back. Good Lord, this was a bad idea. He’s incapable of seeing Sebastian again. He doesn’t want to.

And yet, like an ass situated between life and death, he stands there, unable to do anything.

The door swings open forcefully. His heart leaps into his throat, almost wringing a squeak out of his vocal cords. There’s no going back now. He has to face Sebastian, even if it is the last thing he’ll do with dignity.

Out steps a pot-bellied, middle-aged man.

Admittedly, it takes him a long time to register that this man is not Sebastian. It takes him far longer to deal with the staggering disappointment. Every hope of his goes plummeting down so quickly that he feels like doubling over. A pressure builds on his chest, squeezing the life out of him. It takes considerable effort to hide the pain of his shattered expectations. Luckily, identifying the man comes far easier.

“Sir Toby?” he asks in a voice that doesn’t sound like his own.

The ruddy man spins to face him. He peers at Antonio before his eyebrows rise. “Ah! You!”

“Yes, me.” It’s difficult to smile. “From back then.”

“I remember you. An...Anthony, was it?”

“Close. Antonio, sir.”

“And you are Sebastian’s friend, are you not?”

From underneath the rubble, desperation’s ugly head peeks out. “Indeed. Was I sent for, sir?”

“Something akin to that.” His fingers dive into the pocket of his coat and pull out a letter. “This is addressed to you.”

Antonio takes it from him, pleasantly surprised by the texture of the parchment. When he flips it over, the carefully-printed words draw his mind to a blank.

Sir Toby clears his throat. “Well, I’ll take my leave. Good day.”

“Good day,” Antonio chokes out. His eyes don’t leave the paper.

He is frozen in place. The blood rushes from his fingers to his abdomen. Sir Toby walks slowly, every footfall an eternity before the next. The second he has finished descending the staircase, the world speeds back up. Without thinking, Antonio stumbles into Andrew’s room.

Andrew stands at his desk, his back to the door. He appears to be reading something in his hands.

“Antonio,” he says. He doesn’t move. “Sir Toby was here.”

“I know. We met.” Antonio glances down at his hand, surprised to find it already crushing the letter. “Did he come to give you a letter, too?”

Andrew makes a sound that is part-guffaw, part-groan. “Yes.”

Abandoning decorum, he presses for more. “What did he say?”

“Something about how he is happy that I am well, and that much has changed since my departure, and that Olivia thought it only right to invite me. She told him to come and personally hand us this.”

Andrew’s words are hollow and unfeeling. Such a change feels supernatural. Antonio, slightly scared, closes the door and walks towards him slowly. “Did he apologize?”

“For what?” Andrew looks over his shoulder. His eyes are wide with artificial zeal and his smile is bent in all the wrong places. “Goodness Antonio, can you believe it? A triple wedding! It’ll be the first in Illyria!”

“Andrew...”

“Will the whole island be invited for such a spectacle?” He begins to pace the room, back and forth. “Oh, and we’ll have to buy three gifts for the couples, correct? What would Sebastian like? I know what Toby and Maria would want, but we must put our heads together and think of something for the Duke. I hope my windfall arrives soon. Tell me, Antonio, do you have clothes tailored for the occasion?”

Antonio swallows. His saliva drips down into whirlpool of worries. “I don’t intend on going,” he says.

Andrew whips around. “Why not?”

“I have my reasons."

"But Sebastian is your friend!"

Antonio wishes that Andrew wouldn't sound so incredulous. "It would hurt too much. And...and you do not need to go, either."

Andrew's good cheer drops immediately. “What do you mean?” he asks, voice rising in accusation. “I want to be there! I want to support my friend on the day of his marriage!”

Antonio is undeterred. “Your friend, Sir Toby?”

“Yes, my friend! He’s my good friend!” He grows louder with every declaration. “He came here personally to deliver this letter, because he wants me to be there! He needs me! And I want to be there, I want to help him! We’re friends, and we forgive one another’s mistakes! I may be an ass and thin-faced knave, and he may be a drunkard, but we are still friends! He...he still chose me.” His fervor slowly loses fuel, and his intensity declines. “And if I can’t show my face when he needs me most, then what good am I? We’re friends, and friends overlook one another’s faults. Friends help out one another.” Something flashes across his face and he turns away abruptly.

Antonio gives him enough space to absorb the impact of those words before interrupting. “Do you truly believe that?”

“Yes.” Andrew mechanically sits on the side of the bed. “Yes, I believe that. That is how friendships work. Toby and I are —” His voice breaks before falling to silence.

Antonio steps closer. “My opinion of you won’t change,” he says in the the kindest, most reassuring voice he can muster. “You don’t need to pretend to be fine, Andrew.”

There is no response. That’s fine. Antonio is prepared to wait for an eternity until Andrew makes a decision.

Fortunately, it doesn't take that long. Andrew’s shoulders begin to convulse. When he looks up, his eyes are wet and his lower lip is quivering. “He couldn't even meet my eyes,” he whispers, voice trembling under the weight of his hurt. “He didn’t smile.” And with that, he reaches out for Antonio and wails.

Every sob causes Andrew's entire body to shake. He can’t take air in fast enough to supply his bawls. His fingers dig into Antonio’s wet shirt, pulling him as close as possible. Andrew hacks, coughs, and continues to cry. “He won’t look at me,” he hiccups. Unable to control his shaking, his teeth chatter. “After everything...why wouldn't he?” He deteriorates into more incoherent sobs. No reprieve for this anguish is in sight.

All Antonio can do is Andrew's back silently. A dam withholding perhaps a lifetime’s worth of pain has been opened; blandishments are of no use anymore. He's been through enough rejections to understand the dizzying grief, the torrent of anguish that one sinks deeper and deeper into. How could Toby do this to Andrew? How dare he inflict so much pain.

“Why can’t I be good enough?” Andrew chokes out. “Why can’t I be _good_?”

“You _are_ good,” Antonio leans down to whisper. His vision goes blurry with tears. “No one should have made you feel otherwise.”

"He wouldn't meet my eyes. He acted like a stranger. A _stranger_. Why does he hate me so much?"

Apparently, this invitation is what prompted this question, not the slew of names. Antonio wants to talk him through such irrationality, but find that he has no right to. He is the same, after all.

It takes some time, but Andrew gradually quiets. He slowly descends from weeping to sniffling to shivering. Antonio nonetheless remains in place, even when Andrew's fingers release his clothes. He is still shuddering, dealing with aftershocks of such an Earth-shaking despair. The two of them stay like that in the oppressive silence.

Antonio only lets go when Andrew begins to recline. He continues to lean back until he falls back onto his bed, where he breaks out into a coughing fit that subsides just as quickly as it arrived.

He runs a hand over his waxy, pale skin. Antonio's eyes are drawn to the splotchy redness accumulating in his corneas and nose. In spite of all the saliva and snot, in spite of the swelling and feebleness, Andrew appears oddly...satiated. Like a drunk man still in stupor. Before Antonio can offer his handkerchief, Andrew wipes his face on his sheets. "Sorry," he mutters, voice hoarse and grating.

“There is no need to apologize.”

“I feel foolish now.” He sniffs to clear his nose. The sound of mucus makes him wince.

“For what? Your tears?”

“Partly. And for shedding them in front of you.”

“You need not be ashamed of that,” he reassures. “It was a necessary purge.” Someone like Andrew had no experience with such turmoil. Antonio can't expect him to be strong.

“How can...how can someone act like that?" Andrew wonders allowed. His voice is still cracking. "We did _everything_ together. We drank, we sang, we joked...how can he go back to being a stranger after all that?"

"People can be heartless."

He chuckles weakly. "I was so excited when I saw his carriage. I wanted to see him again. I don't know why he was cross with me, but I was ready to apologize for anything."

"They would have been wasted words."

"Would they?" Andrew rolls onto his back. The remaining tears drip down the trails left by their predecessors. "I want things to go back to how they were. When we were friends."

"When he _needed_ you," Antonio corrects. The irony of it all is not lost on him, and he drowns in his self-loathing. "If...if he was able to discard you so quickly, then it wasn't friendship."

Andrew's answer surprises him. "It doesn't matter," he says, defeated. "It doesn't matter what he thought of me. So long as I could be with him. But now...but now he doesn't even want me around." Another broken laugh. "At least Olivia holds me in some regard."

Antonio is transported back to every rejection in his life. He thinks of a fellow apprentice whose name has been lost in his memory, a crewmate with freckles and a lopsided smile, a friend who always lost at cards, and Sebastian. The pain runs deeper than expected. He finds himself breathless, in awe and terror of the magnitude of this tragic longing. Again and again, he gives, and gives, and asks for nothing in return. _Just to stay by your side. That's all that matters._

"I feel like vomiting from the pain," Andrew says, snapping him out of his thoughts. "Or sleeping to escape it all." He remains focused on the ceiling, so Antonio assumes that he is simply wondering aloud. That is, until he is addressed by name. "Antonio, why does it hurt so much?"

"I..." he begins, but before the words come out, he feels his insides liquify. His eyes burn. Can he answer honestly? Can he afford to show so much vulnerability? Only one of them needs to be crying, so his mind scrambles to next best thing: "It is a paradox."

Andrew's eyes flit towards him. They grow heavy from the exhaustion. "Huh?"

"There is a...paradox. Um, have you seen a hedgehog?"

"Those...those small creatures? With spikes?"

"Precisely." Antonio creates a ball with his hands. "There's a paradox called 'Hedgehog's Dilemma'. During the winter, hedgehogs become cold, no? So they must gather together to share heat. The issue is, if they get too close to one another, they hurt one another with their spines. Although hedgehogs want to get close to one another, they have traits that prevent them from doing so." Great, his eyes fill with tears no matter how he describes this. He takes a moment to compose himself and inhale deeply. It's of no use, but Andrew is watching him now, and he absolutely cannot break. "And after numerous attempts at getting closer and fleeing back, hedgehogs find a suitable distance where they can feel enough warmth and not hurt themselves. It's a bit like humans, isn't it? We come together to find companionship, and are driven away by our bad qualities. And sometimes..." His throat tightens and his words waver under the weight. "When we get too close to someone else, their spines hurt us more."

"So what is the solution?" Andrew shifts towards him with a yawn.

"We find an acceptable distance. We make do with little heat in exchange for not getting pricked. Or better yet, find heat within yourself." Antonio turns away and wipes his eyes fervently. "It's an effective solution." He knows it to be true.

"Do you truly believe that?"

Antonio's eyes widen. He looks down at Andrew, who meets his gaze unflinchingly. With a ghost of a triumphant smile, he says, "A few weeks ago, you wanted to come into my room and speak with me. You said that we'd hardly talked." His icy fingers crawl on the back of Antonio's hand. "You were cold, weren't you?"

Antonio can do nothing but stare. Then, abruptly, chuckles rise. They transform into laughter, which becomes cackling, which becomes fighting back tears. He needs to bite down on his right hand to prevent sobs from escaping.

Andrew shifts again to lie on his back. Just as he closes his eyes, Antonio asks a question that has been writhing in the back of his mind.

"Sir Andrew?" Antonio blurts out, wet and raw.

"Hm?" He's halfway to dozing off.

"Why did you invite me here in the first place?"

The questions hangs in the air for some time. Andrew rubs his eyes and smiles, drowsy but earnest. "Two hedgehogs need to find warmth somehow. Otherwise, we would freeze." He doesn’t stir again, drifting off into a nap.

And for the first time, Antonio realizes what it’s like to give and receive something in return.

**Author's Note:**

> "Haha bro, what if i invite you over to my place over my insecurity of being useless and alone, only to realize that my failing friendships are not a result of my inability to give, and that what i needed was someone who didn't take advantage of my foolishness to realize that relationships don't need to be forced or painful,,,haha, that would be so weird,,,,no way, ahaha,,,unless?"
> 
>  _Et voila!_ The product of many sleepless nights! To me, Andrew never came off as a purely stupid person in the play. Very naive, very trusting, and very scared, sure, but also very generous. Considering that Toby and Feste take advantage of him at every turn, I was hoping for some consequence on behalf of Andrew. :(
> 
> I tried to capture my interpretation of him as best as I could: clueless, a little dramatic, but so kind-hearted that it's hard to _not_ like him. I also wanted to portray Antonio as somewhat jaded and snarky, to provide some contrast. He's a bit hypocritical, a bit _hyper_ critical, and plenty smart (book smart, anyways. Neither of them are very emotionally smart).


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